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This is an excellent plan. Damien agrees.”
    “Sari!”
    “I need to go. I’ll e-mail with details later.”
    The phone was silent a second later, and Ava sat with her mouth hanging open. “I was ambushed.”
    “I was injured,” he said, rubbing his scalp. “Sari’s wrong. I don’t think you’re out of shape at all.”

    THE phone rang late that night. She was in Malachi’s arms, and she reached across his chest to grab it before he could wake, putting it on silent as she checked the number. She didn’t recognize it, so she answered cautiously.
    “Hello?”
    “Ava?”
    “Max?”
    “Your father is in Genoa. Well, a little town in that region. Not far from Portofino.”
    “Portofino?”
    “He has a house there. An old castle he’s renting.”
    She blinked, trying to clear her mind. “You’ve seen him?”
    “Renata found him. He’s not in good shape, sister.”
    She was still only half awake when Malachi took the phone from her.  
    “Send us the details,” he said, rubbing her shoulders, which had gone stiff at Max’s tone. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”

Chapter Three

    MALACHI OPENED HIS EYES, knowing he was no longer in Istanbul.  
    He dreamed, but Ava was not with him.  
    He was no longer in the forest of his mate’s walks, but a room that resembled the ritual room of a scribe house. Wax candles dripped on the center table where coals from the sacred fire forced tendrils of heat through the room. Etchings marked the walls, ancient spells protecting the children of the Forgiven from harm.
    And the black presence that stalked his mate lurked at the edge of his dreaming.
    An epicene figure rose in the corner of the room. “I cannot reach her, but I can reach you.”
    Malachi turned, recognizing the voice that laughed in some shadowed corner of his lost memory. “Volund.”
    “Yes.”
    Malachi scanned the room, reassuring himself that Ava was nowhere near.
    “She is not here,” the angel said. “I have tried. He has shielded her from my sight. He excels in such things.”
    Malachi stepped closer. “Show yourself.”
    The slim figure rose and grew, abandoning the sculptural facade he showed the human world. Here, Malachi realized—in dreams—he could see the angel’s true face. All traces of human flaw fled from Volund’s visage. Blue eyes bled to gold. His skin, pale before, grew luminous as the moon. His hair, a sandy brown that would blend with the human masses, became true amber, translucent in the glow of the candles flickering in the center of the room.
    He was utterly beautiful. A god to human sight.
    Malachi was transfixed.  
    The angel’s eyes glowed with barely restrained power, like the sun hiding behind a morning fog.
    “Do you love me?” Volund stared into Malachi’s eyes.
    “No,” Malachi said. “You do not want to be loved.”
    Volund smiled with closed lips. “No, I do not.”
    “What do you want?”
    “I want to be feared. Worshipped.”
    “You were not meant to be worshipped.”
    Volund laughed, the cynical smirk marring the angel’s handsome face, which melted back into a more human appearance. Stunning, but less otherworldly. And yet it was as if his power had simply condensed. Black energy licked along Malachi’s skin.
    This is a dream.
    “If you think I have no power over your dreams,” Volund said, “you are mistaken, Scribe.”
    “I am protected.”
    “By whom? Jaron guards your mate, though you know not his reasons.” Volund’s blue eyes danced. “You are nothing.”
    Malachi took a deep breath and closed his eyes, breaking the connection with the monster who taunted him and willing himself to return to waking.
    “You are nothing.” The voice was different.  
    Malachi opened his eyes, and the angel had departed. Left in his place, the phantom of the Grigori soldier he’d killed on the rooftop in Oslo.
    Brage’s expression held nothing of the arrogance he’d exhibited in life. His blue eyes were blank and hollow. His face was as beautiful